This must be the place: ‘Dry leaves under my shoes, I’ve got nothin’ to lose’
The bungalow in St. Augustine.
Garret K. Woodward photo
Hello from St. Augustine, Florida. Specifically, a small bungalow a few blocks from the Spanish ruins and the heart of the city. This place has been rented by my folks for the month of March for the last 13 years, these two snowbirds fleeing the frozen North Country that is our native Upstate New York.
Last night, I rolled in around 11 p.m. Door-to-door from my humble abode in Waynesville is about nine hours (including gas stops, etc.). Yesterday (Thursday), as I stepped out the front door of my apartment, I could see a blanket of white thrown over the high peaks surrounding downtown. And as I was packing up my truck, snowflakes started to cascade down from above, a far cry from the 70-degree warmth felt on Wednesday afternoon.
Luckily, I was able to bolt out of town and leave the last of the winter weather in the rearview mirror. By the time I crossed into South Carolina on Interstate 26 and slid below the Plateau, the temperatures rose back into the 60s with sunshine, all right when I pulled over for a quick run on the Palmetto Trail near the small community of Prosperity (just outside Columbia).
For me, this annual trek to “The Sunshine State” is the official kickoff for the spring/summer shenanigans. Once the doldrums of winter melt away, both physically and intrinsically, it’s usually when I hop into the old pickup and duck down here. This weeklong odyssey has been something I’ve been able to do for several years now. It’s a chance to not only reconnect with my parents, who I don’t see that often and it’s also a moment to reflect and gaze ahead.
For the last 19 years, they’ve been cruising below the Mason-Dixon Line every March. Originally, back in 2007, they started out renting a bungalow in Tybee Island, Georgia. That first year, I was 22 and a senior in college in Connecticut. My two best college buddies and I drove down to Tybee and crashed on the couches at their bungalow for a wild-n-out weekend of beer and beaches. Thankfully, my folks have always enjoyed company whenever on vacation.
Six years later, they relocated to St. Augustine because “Tybee got too cold to walk the beach.” A five-minute walk from the bungalow to the Spanish ruins, old Irish pubs and an array of delicious Mexican restaurants, not to mention raucous music venues. The memories conjured and cultivated here are something held onto tightly by my folks (and me, too), especially when the below zero winter temperatures overtake their Canadian border farmhouse — visions of warm sunshine and white sand beaches keeping them sane.
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Once I leave I-26 and merge onto I-95 in South Carolina, it’s a straight shot to St. Augustine. The blazing sun fading below the flat horizon of vast fields and swamps. Windows rolled down. A cool breeze swirling around me. The sounds of Bob Wills & His Texas Playboys, I’m With Her, Neil Young, Pink Floyd, Kelsey Waldon, Joni Mitchell, Herbie Hancock and others radiate out of the stereo — steady hands on the wheel, restless thoughts soon becoming at ease.
Not long after sunset, the large sign appears: “Florida Welcomes You.” Finally. Pull off at the rest area on the state line. Emerge from the vehicle and smell the sweet air. The nighttime warmth wraps around your body. Muscles in your neck and back seem to relax immediately. Back on the road and the last of the journey to St. Augustine. The unrelenting traffic of I-95 transitions into the secondary roads heading into “The Ancient City,” now quiet this time of night.
Opening my eyes this morning, it took me a moment or so to realize where I was. It wasn’t another anonymous hotel room from coast to coast while on assignment. Not my one-bedroom apartment, either. It was the familiar guest room with the squeaky ceiling fan and big bedposts like something out of a Disney film. Wander into the kitchen in search of coffee. And while I’m just beginning to think about what to have for breakfast, my folks are already making lunch and planning for dinner. Maybe the beach between then.
It’s now early afternoon. The sunshine has finally broken through the cloud cover. Throw the beach chairs and cooler into the truck and motor over to the shores of the mighty Atlantic Ocean across the Bridge of Lions to Anastasia Island. Don’t forget the running shoes, seeing as I’m in dire need for a beach jog in shorts and a T-shirt after an entire winter of being bundled up to trudge through the snow and ice of the unforgiving season.
Although the work emails never stop coming, and although I’ll be on deadline and writing articles throughout this entire jaunt to Florida, it doesn’t matter in essence and in truth. For what matters most is making the trip here and spending quality time with them. My dad is turning 84 on Monday, which is a big reason why I find myself in Florida each year. Mom turned 77 in January.
I don’t take for granted that the three of us get along and enjoy each other’s company. That isn’t the case for many others, whether it’s simply based on family dynamics and haphazard relationships or merely the fact their loved ones may not be currently traversing this earth — their memory being shared, cherished and rehashed by beloved friends and family in their absence as the universe itself continues on like it always does.
While finishing this column, my mom is patiently awaiting its completion so that we can finally head to the beach. Maybe we’ll track down a late afternoon margarita in the depths of St. Augustine, most likely at Casa Reina or Casa Maya. Walk down to do so from the bungalow, perhaps a bite to eat at either culinary destination, all before tracking down some live music at Prohibition Kitchen, Colonial Oak Music Park or the Mill Top Tavern.
To that, St. Patrick’s Day is right around the corner. I can see a Guinness in my future, maybe even some Celtic tunes and singalongs at Ann O’Malley’s or Meehan’s. Who knows? Who cares? Let the unknown day unfold in its own time and place. Go with the flow. You can’t force life, it just happens at its own pace, with the honest ethos of “kindness breeds kindness” ringing true in any situation, encounter or interaction with fellow humans and animals alike.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
